


A Present

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas 2012, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a present from someone who knows him better than most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Present

**Author's Note:**

> My holiday contribution to fandom this year.

The parcel had arrived two weeks before Christmas. In the rush of a new case— and the subsequent black moods, good tidings, well wishes, and general chaos of the holidays— the package, with its brown paper wrappings and neat label, lay forgotten in Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room until the twenty-ninth. She left the little parcel on the steps up to 221B with a little note for Sherlock (an apology for the late package and a reminder not to let the mould samples fester again) before she left to visit her sister for her traditional first visit of the new year. 

It was the small hours of January First before Sherlock retrieved the note and parcel from the steps. 

The note from his landlady joined the rest of his correspondence beneath the jackknife on the mantel, and the parcel was tossed carelessly to the sofa and forgotten until he had settled the matter of documenting the new state of the cultures on the table (slightly ‘festering’ in his and John’s absence) and prepared some tea. 

Settled again in his own home, and the chill of two days spent out with his network receding, Sherlock righted the parcel to examine the writing on the label. 

Carrying it up the stairs had given him all the information he needed from the packaging itself— two weeks spent on the stiff guests’ chair in Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room (he had a decent sampling of the particular fibres from the crocheted covering), a few hours spent travelling with the local postman, waited in the queue of holiday post with the rest for a few of the “guaranteed three to five working days” guaranteed for standard deliveries. There was nothing unusual about the brown paper itself, save for the label and a slight scuff here or there where careless handling had worn down the paper itself. 

Now that he could examine the writing in proper light, he could see that it was a man’s writing— sharp and careful, with a steady pressure on the beginning of each letter and number. Right-handed, written with a military efficiency— used to short notes, not addresses— and slight duress given the smudge of ink at each curve. He could recreate several scenarios in his mind to explain how that label was written, but the only fact that interested him was that the label was not written by anyone he knew or would readily recognize. 

Sherlock took his first sip of tea. 

He was not surprised that the parcel was a book when he had cut away the paper. The weight and shape and size had given him that much information when he first picked it up from the stairs (he had enjoyed the way John had tried to keep him from deducing the gifts this year— disguising shapes, adding weight, and trying to outright change the way something could feasibly be wrapped. It had been a fun game between them, even if John tried very hard to look like he wanted to throw things at Sherlock’s head with each correct deduction). He smiled when he saw the title, printed in a simple Helvetica typeface on the sleeve. 

_Gruesome, Puzzling, and Unsolved Crimes of the Past Century._

The publishing information claimed that the book was not meant to be in circulation for another three months, and the dedication was sent out to “London’s Finest and the Sources they Don’t Credit.” 

A flip through the book revealed stories, file photos, and very little commentary input for the first two hundred pages. The margins were large enough for notes. Entire sections were dedicated to the forensic evidence and method of each modern case. It was as if the book was created with him in mind. 

Sherlock paused at the last hundred pages and hid his smile behind the cup of tea he had nearly forgotten. The pages were blank, lined for notes, and open spaces for pictures. On the first of these empty pages was a far more familiar handwriting— one he had studied for hours in the attempt to understand the mind that directed it. 

“We’ll fill these ones in together, my dear. Keep it for the new year. –JM”


End file.
